


Stumble Through Heaven

by blackkat



Category: DCU (Comics), Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Crossover, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Hakkai is terrifying, Humor, M/M, Reincarnation, Sanzo is an evil mastermind, or chaotic neutral mastermind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/969033">Paper Airplanes</a>. Dick gets the feeling that this is more of himself than Sanzo's explained to anyone in a very long time. He smiles, because criminal mastermind or not, coldblooded business shark or not, he’s fairly certain he likes Sanzo, and since Sanzo has yet to chase him away, he’s at least tolerated, and that’s cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumble Through Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, having a massive writer’s block on my other stories leaves me with…this. Whoops. It’s entirely self-indulgent, utterly mashes the DC timelines, and will likely only be 3-4 chapters, but it’s something. A cracky as hell something, granted, but still. 
> 
> (Title borrowed from Halsey’s _Young Gods_ , because.)

Gotham’s largest park manages to be gloomy, verdant, and looming, all at once. Compared to the polite, well-groomed forests in and around San Francisco, these ones feel like home to Dick. He enjoys them with all the air of novelty that comes with being a city boy, because Batman and Robin by nature are urban creatures, despite Batman recently going global.

There are even a few tentative walking trails, and whenever Dick’s feeling whimsical or like following an established path, he takes them. The track is packed dirt under his shoes, and when he looks up, the branches loom close and heavy. Sunlight falls in drips and darts as he makes his way up the faint incline. It’s not exactly a safe place for most people to wander, but it’s been a very long time since Dick feared muggers.

Dick’s not quite sure why he’s out here, except that Gotham becomes stifling even to those trying to save it sometimes—maybe _especially_ when one is trying to save it—and Dick is absolutely sick of playing socialite Bruce Wayne’s clever, cheerful, outgoing ward. Even being in the circus never put quite this strain on his acting abilities, and he’s quickly remembering why he spends the vast majority of his time with the Titans.

The path levels out, and then a few steps on fades to nothing but a bit of patchy grass before vanishing completely. Dick surveys his surroundings and sighs, about to turn around and try another trail.

And then the weak scent of cigarettes hits his nose.

By nature, by training, Dick is a bit of a nosy ass. He takes a breath of the smell—Marlboro Reds, faint and already fading, so most likely recently extinguished, unless he’s mistaken—and follows. He pushes through undergrowth and shrubbery, long untamed by human hands, and ducks a low-hanging bough into a small clearing.

Somehow, it’s no surprise at all to see Genjo Sanzo seated on a stump, one leg tucked up under him in a half-lotus position, hands resting loosely on his knees and fingers bent in what looks vaguely like a meditation pose. The businessman is dressed in slacks and a neat white shirt, dress shoes polished to a mirror-shine, tail of golden hair falling over his shoulder as he breathes steadily and evenly. Dick pauses at the edge of the grass, wondering if he should interrupt. Then he shrugs to himself and steps forward, plopping himself down next to Sanzo with a cheerful, “We should stop meeting like this, you know? People might talk.”

Without opening his eyes, Sanzo makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “You're going to make a habit of this, aren’t you?” he asks crankily, but makes no attempt to chase Dick away.

Dick leans back on his hands and watches the man curiously. This park is right in the middle of the business district, and that combined with Sanzo's attire… “Did you sneak out of work without telling anyone?”

Sanzo snorts derisively, but doesn’t contradict him, and Dick concludes that he’s right. “Your partners aren’t going to be happy,” he offers.

Violet eyes open just a little, glaring at him narrowly. “I'm becoming one with the forces of the universe,” Sanzo growls. “Fuck off.”

But it’s not heated, or at least not so much so that Dick can't easily ignore it. He regards Sanzo for a minute, and then chuckles. “You're the kind of person who says you hate strays, but ends up bringing them home anyways, aren’t you?” he asks in amusement. “And no one can ever figure out why children and animals like you, but they do.”

Sanzo stares back at him flatly, but there's a faint hint of humor in it—buried, deeply buried, but there nevertheless. “You’ve met my partners. World’s ugliest strays. And I haven’t murdered you yet, have I?” he asks, settling back a little and digging in his pockets for a moment before pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Marlboro Reds. Dick was right.

As Sanzo lights one and takes a drag, Dick makes a face. “That’s going to kill you,” he points out.

Sanzo huffs out a snort, like this is the funniest thing he’s heard in a long time. He blows a stream of smoke at the overhanging boughs, and then says, “It’s karma.”

Dick gets a feeling he’s not talking about the hippy, sensationalized version. There's depth to the word when Sanzo uses it, a weight and significance and impact that normally falls by the way. He says nothing, but lets the silence stretch as Sanzo stares thoughtfully at the glowing tip.

“Karma?” he asks at length, when it’s clear that Sanzo's not about to say anything more.

Sanzo smiles, just faintly, and takes another drag. “For everyone you’ve killed, for everyone you can't possibly save,” he says, like it’s a lesson he learned a long time ago. “Breathe in the smoke, feel it burn, feel it fill up your lungs and turn them black, and that’s your penance. Your karma.”

“No one can save everyone,” Dick says, to hide the shiver that’s running down his spine.

Those violet eyes settle on him, heavy with something that goes beyond age. “No,” Sanzo agrees, taking another drag. “No one can. Sometimes, you can't even save anyone.”

He doesn’t offer Dick a cigarette, and Dick is glad. He’s not entirely certain whether he’d turn it down.

The silence stretches, and Sanzo's breathing evens out again, deepens, the lines in his face smoothing as he sits there. It’s odd to see him like this, so _easy_ with himself and the world around him when Dick’s used to the elite of the business realm being shallow bastards with sticks permanently and immovably shoved up their asses. Dick watches as the cigarette burns down without Sanzo even noticing, bits of ash fluttering down to the grass. There's a dot of red on his forehead, something Dick hadn’t noticed before, which is curious. He has to restrain himself from asking about it. He has to restrain himself from asking about a lot, actually, because—well, nosy ass and all that.

Eventually, he can't entirely hold it in any more—because unlike Bruce, Dick’s patience is entirely human, and therefore exhaustible. “Can I ask _why_ you're becoming one with the forces of the universe?” he probes. “Not that it’s not an admirable endeavor, but you don’t…seem the type.”

Sanzo is silent for so long that Dick assumes he’s not going to answer. Then, just when he’s given up, Sanzo says, “Muichimotsu. Part of Buddhism.”

Dick blinks. He’s vaguely familiar with the tenants of Buddhism, because living with Batman means he’s vaguely familiar with pretty much _everything_ , but… “You're _Buddhist_?” he demands, trying to reconcile the idea of _Sanzo_ and _Buddhism_ and failing miserably.

One violet eye slits open to regard him narrowly, then slides shut again. “Muichimotsu means ‘hold nothing’.” Sanzo's clearly ignoring his outburst.

Putting aside his moment of existential crisis, Dick focuses. Now, at least, he can make some connections, and they make a little more sense. “So you focus on achieving enlightenment and avoid ties to anything on earth?” This, of course, coming from one of the wealthiest men in the world. Maybe it doesn’t make sense.

Another long stretch of silence, and Dick takes to watching Sanzo again. It’s nearly creepy how at peace the man looks, like birds could land on his shoulders at any moment and make him a true part of the scenery. Then Sanzo shifts, just slightly, and resettles. “It’s an overall outlook. An end goal,” he says, as though he’s correcting Dick—almost as though he’s reminding himself, too. “You shouldn’t hold anything to the exclusion of everything else. It’s to help keep a perspective.”

That, at least, does make a bit more sense. Dick accepts it, turning it over in his mind, and then files it away to chew on later. Instead, he studies Sanzo. There's a bruise fading on one sharp cheekbone, just now changing from yellow-green back to skin-tone. Dick remembers the night in the warehouse, Sanzo's cool contempt even when faced with Luthor in a rage. The official story is that Luthor snapped and kidnapped Sanzo because of his failing business, and then Sanzo's partners managed to find him. Luthor’s hired thugs took exception and then Luthor was caught in the crossfire.

It’s true, for the most part, and the best thing is that pretty much no one believes it.

“You're doing all right?” he asks. “I heard you were kidnapped. That’s rough.”

Sanzo's glare speaks volumes as to the inanity of the question, and Dick rolls his eyes and gestures at his own cheek. “You’ve got a bruise. Here.” Sanzo doesn’t touch it, doesn’t twitch, but his glare deepens just a touch and falls to arctic levels of cool. Dick ignores him—living with Raven is good for that, at least—and asks, “That why you're meditating?”

With a snort, the man turns his face away—not hiding the bruise, Dick notes, which is, well, anyone else in Sanzo's situation likely would have. He pulls out his cigarettes again, but doesn’t take one, simply tapping the pack against his knee. “No,” he says shortly. “I'm fine. Luthor was a moron. This is…just me.”

Dick gets the feeling that that’s more of himself than Sanzo's explained to anyone in a very long time. He smiles, because criminal mastermind or not, coldblooded business shark or not, he’s fairly certain he likes Sanzo, and since Sanzo has yet to chase him away, he’s at least tolerated, and that’s cool.

His phone chirps at him, sharp and insistent, and Dick has to retrain a sigh. He really should get around to giving Bruce a ringtone. Maybe the shower theme from _Psycho_. Or the shark’s theme from _Jaws_. Darth Vader’s Imperial March might also be amusing. Pushing to his feet, he gives Sanzo a brief wave and heads out, back towards the main part of the park. Bruce is waiting, and this time of the afternoon, it could be either Bruce Wayne or Batman who needs him.

But he takes one last look behind him as he goes. Sanzo's watching him, eyes narrowed faintly, but he nods just once. It’s probably the equivalent of a rousing farewell in someone else, and Dick grins as he ducks through the trees.

 

 

Sanzo watches the boy go, listens to his fading footsteps—already nearly silent, only audible because Sanzo's searching for them—and reaches for his lighter and cigarettes. A moment later, smoke is curling in the air, and nicotine burns hot and sweet down Sanzo's throat. He lets out a long stream of smoke, and then says, “You going to hide back there all day?”

In the trees behind him, a shadow separates from the rest, and a man steps out—not tall, not short, but lean and more heavily muscled than Sanzo, with long, dark red hair and dark purple eyes. The three red marks on his left cheek have carried over into this life, as has the penchant for heavy gold jewelry. He’s careful to keep his hands loose and by his side, even though Sanzo wants to scoff at him for it; how many years have they known each other? If Sanzo didn’t know by now that this man is about as likely to attack unannounced from behind as Goku is to voluntarily skip a meal, he’d be as dumb as a rock.

“I’d forgotten,” Kougaiji says, and he’s smiling a little as he leans against a tree in front of Sanzo. “You always let Lirin hang all over you. It wasn’t just her, I see.”

Sanzo takes a deep drag of smoke and ignores the former demon prince. Kougaiji keeps watching him, eyes considering, and the silence stretches.

At length, Kougaiji sighs and tucks his hands into his pockets. “The sutras?” he asks.

“Safe,” Sanzo answers, closing his eyes again. “Scattered, but it’s less dangerous that way.”

The other Sanzo priests are likely enjoying enlightenment, not caught in this endless cycle of rebirth. Sanzo wonders, sometimes, if he envies them for it, but then he remembers the absolutely mind-numbing _dullness_ of Heaven and decides he doesn’t. Still, it leaves him as sole protector of the five sutras, which is a pain in the ass. There was a reason the Sanzos never gathered—the scrolls have the power, when united, to create an entire world. Sanzo can't exactly walk around with them all on his shoulders.

Kougaiji nods and meets Sanzo's questioning gaze. His lips quirk in a smile. “I'm a shareholder in Wayne Enterprises,” he answers the unspoken question. “Tenshi Kaigen International is all anyone can talk about right now, especially with Luthor’s death. It was easy enough to find you, working from there. Do the others remember yet?”

Sanzo grunts an affirmative, taking another drag. Kougaiji isn’t a friend, exactly, but he’s been a constant over the years, and that’s a comfort in itself. Even when Hakkai and Gojyo never appeared, Kougaiji always has, and he and Sanzo have…adjusted, mostly, to not being enemies. There have even been times when they were very much not enemies. “They do,” he says. Then he pauses, an offer on the tip of his tongue even though he hasn’t ever considered it before. “Occupied?” he asks after a moment.

The prince raises a brow at him. “Do you mean right now, in general, or in this lifetime?” he asks with amusement.

Sanzo doesn’t dignify that with a response. “We’re not usually on the same side,” is all he says.

Kougaiji watches him narrowly. “No,” he agrees. “Mostly because we’re always on our own sides.”

Sanzo takes a deep breath of smoke and then lets it out, watches it swirl up towards the sky in a ghostly stream. “We’re trying something new this time,” he says, dropping his gaze to the prince. “Interested?”

Royal purple eyes meet violet, and Kougaiji pushes off his tree to settle on the packed ground next to Sanzo. “I'm listening.”

 

 

Sanzo comes back from his impromptu field trip smelling of fresh air and cigarettes, damp earth and the faintest hint of Armani cologne. Hakkai catches a breath of it and freezes, because Sanzo has always eschewed the idea of perfume for men and refuses to wear any. The logical assumption is that it’s not his, and Hakkai doesn’t like that at all.

“Business meeting in fifteen minutes, Sanzo,” is all he says, though, cheerful and careful not to let anything slip, because Sanzo doesn’t need to know just how twisted up in knots he’s gotten both Hakkai and Gojyo.

Sanzo scoffs a little, but drops down in the chair behind his desk and drags the appropriate folder closer. He’s forever been the type to do his duty, which has always struck Hakkai as a puzzling contradiction to the rest of his aggressive, antisocial, insubordinate, and ever-recalcitrant personality. Even as a priest, he always took his work in the temple seriously, and Hakkai wonders if it’s something he gained from his mysterious former master, the man they’ve only rarely heard him mention.

But when he thinks Hakkai isn't watching, Sanzo pauses, head still bent over the paperwork. There's no movement, no tell by which to judge his thoughts, but Hakkai knows him well enough to see the distance in his eyes, the inattention no one else would ever notice. Sanzo is entirely lost in thought, something that doesn’t happen often.

And, if Hakkai was to have his guess, he’d say it was about the man who left that smell on him.

It takes effort not to stride over and demand answers, loom and growl and make sure Sanzo _knows_ that such things are not—will never be—acceptable. But even in the grasp of a fit of temper, Hakkai is aware enough to realize that the only thing that will get him is shot. Sanzo still has that mysterious ability to conjure either gun or harissen at will—rather like Goku and Gojyo’s weapons, though in this case, Hakkai is (fairly) certain that it’s down to speed and skill rather a mystical bond.

Setting his jaw in a perfectly polite smile, Hakkai turns neatly on his heel and strides out of the office, careful not to let his movements become a stalk. Even so, Gojyo takes one look at him and blanches. Ah, the perils of knowing each other well.

“Damn, Hakkai, that’s your scary face,” the redhead says, taking a step back and lifting his hands. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t me. I did my paperwork like a good little boy.”

“Meaning you flirted with your secretary until she got tired of finding creative ways to turn you down and kicked you out to do the work herself,” Goku chimes in cheerfully, not looking up from his handheld game. Despite his guardian’s eternal surliness in the face of modern conveniences, Goku wholeheartedly appreciates the amenities available in this period. There's a stuffed bag at his feet, and he’s wearing the uniform of the private school Sanzo enrolled him in in the hopes of getting Goku out of his hair. Not that it’s worked, as Goku seems to spend far more time in the sitting area here than he does in class.

“Goku,” Hakkai says lightly, ignoring Gojyo for the moment—and also ignoring the way Goku eyes him for a second and then starts to inch away. “How has Sanzo been this afternoon?”

That, at least, catches their attention. Goku looks up, clearly surprised, and Gojyo frowns, casting a quick glance through the frosted glass doors. Following his gaze, Goku studies the vague outline of his guardian for a moment and then turns back to Hakkai with a shrug.

“Happy,” he says. “And smug, but he’s been looking forward to this deal all week, right?”

Admittedly, Sanzo does take great and vindictive pleasure in his persona of the cutthroat business mogul. Perhaps that’s all this is. Perhaps the cologne came from someone he bumped into on his little jaunt. Perhaps Hakkai is simply jumping the gun, so uncertain in this new situation that he’s seeing thing that don’t exist, drawing connections between things that are random chance.

But Hakkai doesn’t think he is.

Goku has gone back to his game, the matter settled in his mind. Hakkai meets Gojyo’s eyes and hopes the redhead will read the _later_ there. This isn’t the time or place to be discussing such things. Gojyo hesitates, but then nods shortly, his expression a promise that he isn’t going to let this drop, though he keeps his peace for the moment.

And, as if on cue, the office doors burst open, expelling Sanzo in a whirl of well-tailored silk and golden hair, files tucked under one arm and an unholy light in his eyes. Hakkai spares a brief moment to feel pity for whoever’s meeting him across the negotiating table today, as it will certainly not end in their favor. But as ever, Sanzo’s pull is entirely magnetic, and like a lodestone drawn northward, Hakkai falls into step behind him, Gojyo barely a beat behind and Goku bringing up the rear.

It’s not a journey west with only their wits and weapons and luck to get them through, but it’s enough.

Hakkai studies the line of Sanzo’s shoulders, the curve of his throat, and feels his fingers clench just a little tighter on his papers.

He’ll _make sure_ it’s enough.


End file.
